


My True Love Gave to Me

by dsa_archivist



Category: The X-Files, due South
Genre: Christmas, Crossover, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-04-20
Updated: 1999-04-20
Packaged: 2018-11-10 22:41:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11136123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: A pregnant Frannie finally gets herself a nice Catholic...





	My True Love Gave to Me

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

Disclaimer: Copyrighted property of Alliance Television and 1013

Productions. This is a PG rated (sorry) PWP written for the X-Files/Due

South crossover challenge on DSX, and takes place after the close of Due

South proper. God only knows how it fits into the X-Files universe. 

Yes, PG means no sex, but it's romance between two women, and surely

*that's* not fit for family consumption.

My True Love Gave to Me

by Hth

"Just one. Please?" Her girlfriend's look was stern, in that

sky-and-cream way that only the Celts could manage. "It's not fair. My

family used to open all our presents on Christmas Eve.:

"Not until tomorrow, Francesca." Scully settled on the arm of the

couch, her fingertips massaging Francesca's temples. "Look, it's still

snowing outside. Look how pretty the ice is on the trees."

She sighed with operatic feeling. "It's pretty. Don't listen to me;

I'm just bloated and fat and cranky, and I'm being a prima rosa on

Christmas."

"Donna, honey. Prima donna."

"Prima donna and child." Francesca folded her hands on top of her

round belly. "What if I had the baby on Christmas Eve? Wouldn't that

be -- weird?"

"Very weird," Scully agreed, and only the tightening of her full lips

betrayed how distasteful the idea was to her. Immaculate conceptions in

her off hours, in her own home, were bad enough; she didn't need life

with Francesca to take on any more messianic overtones than it already

had.

Scully put the headphones on Francesca's stomach, the sounds of

Handel's Messiah ringing tinny and distant through the room. She

couldn't help but fuss; it was such a -- a miracle. A baby, after all

Scully had been through. Frannie, in that loopy, scattershot, crazily

generous way she had, got pregnant out of sheer wanting to have adorable

little black-eyed Vecchio babies to share with Scully.

Every time she thought of the baby, their baby, Scully was swamped by

the urge to nest -- no, the need to make things perfect for poor,

bloated, fat, cranky, divine, beautiful Frannie Vecchio. She brought

the tray of bell-shaped sugar cookies to the coffee table where Frannie

could reach them, wrapped the quilt around Francesca's shoulders, turned

off all the lights except the tree and the runners around the window,

and settled in against her girlfriend's side, drawing her own feet up

and tucking them between the cushions of the sofa.

Francesca patted Scully's knee where her expensive white silk robe

parted to expose her leg. "Thanks for putting up with me. It's so

weird, having the whole family in Florida over Christmas."

"We could have gone, you know."

"What? And have my baby born in some tacky bowling alley and get

flamencos and mouse ears for gifts?"

"Flamingos, honey."

"Flamingos! My baby is going to be born in Chicago like a regular

American. It's just -- this is my first Christmas without Ma, you

know? And it's going to be the first Christmas with Ray married, and--"

Gently, Scully turned Frannie's head and met her lips in a moist,

lingering touch that was more the suggestion of a kiss than a kiss. 

"It's different, isn't it?" She smoothed down the lace on the collar of

Frannie's red flannel nightgown, motivated by a fussy, pre-maternal need

for neatness, but a wave of sheer affection made her ache to pet

Francesca, and she gave in to the urge. She had been the most

angelicly, daintily, exuberantly feminine thing Scully had ever seen,

right from the beginning, and yet now Frannie was nothing short of a

goddess, disheveled but luminous, wide-eyed but serene and confident,

modest and homey in her flannel, but lush with childbearing curves that

overflowed Scully's capable but small hands as she felt along them. Her

eyes fluttered closed, and she kissed Frannie again, their tongues

pressing and parting until Scully couldn't have seen if she had wanted

to.

When their lips parted, Scully knew she was smiling, half giddy and

half smug, with Frannie's red lipstick on her mouth. "Maybe just one

present."

"You pick one for me and I'll pick one for you." Even at nine months

pregnant, Francesca could move with sprightly energy when she tried, and

she was on her knees rooting around under the tree before the words were

out of her mouth. "Here -- you open this."

Without even looking at the names scrawled on the black-and-silver

plaid wrapping paper ("Scully Mulder Xmas" it said, rather

inarticulately), she knew from the half-hearted wrap job whose it was. 

She shook it once, listening as though for forensic evidence on a

wiretap. Sounded like videotapes, two of them, which didn't bode very

well for anyone. But when all was revealed, the gift turned out to be

not only benign, but rather charming -- the whole first season of

Blake's 7 on tape, courtesy of Mulder's English friends. "What is it?"

Frannie asked dubiously.

"It's a British science-fiction show. Hard to find in the U.S. I know

this is the one you're dying for, Frannie. Go ahead."

She took the box from Scully with exaggerated care, as if she could

clutch at a brown-paper-wrapped box that had come all the way from the

Northwest Territories and shatter it. There was a handmade card, which

Frannie read aloud while Scully went for scissors to cut the twine on

the box. "The bond that links your true family is not one of blood, but

of respect and joy in each other's life. Season's greetings to our dear

sister Francesca & family, from Benton and Ray."

They bent together over the package, and with identical motions pushed

hair off their faces in concentration. Scully snipped the twine, and

Francesca tore hungrily through the paper. "Oh, my God."

Scully's first, pragmatic thought was that it was old, and probably

valuable. The doll's clay features were indistinct, but in perfect

condition, and the painted black eyes glistened cleanly. Francesca

exhaled reverently, touching its dress. "I think it's deerskin."

"The painting on it looks like it was done by hand. This is really

beautiful, Francesca. I'd love to know where it came from; there's

probably a really interesting story--"

Frannie rolled her eyes. "Trust me, there is. When Fraser finds

something, there's *always* a story." She was already cradling the doll

in one arm, just like a mother. "You know...I used to be in love with

him."

Lightly, Scully passed the heel of her hand over Frannie's cheek,

watching those snapping black eyes go soft-focus and tender. "If that's

a confession, I'm not shocked."

"You were in love with Mulder, weren't you?"

"Let's put it this way: I would have done a lot for him, but I don't

think I would have gotten out of bed at two in the morning just to drive

ten miles for bean sprouts and cranberry mustard."

She gave Scully the smile that Scully was seeing more and more out of

Frannie lately, less girlish, more grounded. "I love you, too, Dana. 

What are we going to do with Fraser's doll if the baby is a boy?"

"I don't see why that makes any difference. There's nothing wrong with

boys having dolls."

"You don't think he'll have a problem with gender indemnity?"

"I think gender identity is overrated. If we have a boy who plays with

dolls, he'll just grow up to be a man who's good with babies, right? 

He'll be a catch."

Frannie leaned in, pressing her forehead to Scully's. "You're a

catch."

Chuckling, Scully pulled Francesca to her feet. "Santa only visits

little girls who are in bed, Frannie."

"Ma makes Belgian waffles every Christmas morning," Frannie sighed

softly.

"Well, I'm sorry, honey. I make Pop Tarts." Long years with Mulder

had taught her to hide her amusement, and Francesca couldn't see the

humor behind Scully's grave eyes as she thought of the waffle iron under

the tree tagged with Frannie's name.

Francesca kissed her in the soft light of golden bulbs reflected off of

snow, her press-on nails caressing the back of Scully's neck. It all

ran together in Scully's mind -- the suppressed tears of happiness she'd

felt pricking her eyes earlier in the evening as she took Frannie's arm

to help her to her knees at Mass, the first snowfall starring Frannie's

impossibly soft hair with glitter, cutting the twine so Frannie could

open her gift, Frannie with that maternal glow rocking an antique doll

from the Yukon, prima rosa and child under the electric star weighing

down the top of the tree -- and became one image, richly layered but

cohesive, of love and Christmas presents.

Hth

hth29@hotmail.com

http://members.tripod.com/HthW


End file.
